like the moon moves the tides [agent carter werewolf au]

part 0. spirit broken

I had a brother, Peggy had said, faltering, hesitant. A brother named – named Michael.

(cw for nazism, non-graphic dramatization of real-life war crimes, mention of civilian deaths, mention of torture, violence)

: :

Distomo is a mess and a half.

Dixon was boated in a few weeks ago. He’s been on his own since he left Italy, with just the occasional encoded missives from the SOE and the Americans coordinating their efforts on nearby islands and waterways.

Schmedes, the German bastard in charge here, is a nasty sort of fellow, prone to underthinking and overreacting. He isn’t too keen on wolves, either, which was too bad. Dixon himself has a soft spot for wolves, although he hasn’t worked with any furry cousins since Carter got himself taken in France.

Hell, but that’s been years, now. He rather misses the poor fellow.

are ye happy? / no: art thou?

“ARE YE HAPPY?

“WE ARE MIGHTY.

“ARE YE HAPPY?

“NO: ART THOU?”

something that never happened.

.

When Stormtroopers kick down the door of their little homestead, Owen spares a fraction of a second to be thankful that Beru and Luke both got caught on the other side of a sandstorm last night and -

He cuts his thought off there. It’s dangerous to think too much, around these sorts of folk. Owen raises the shotblaster, instead.

The first bolt goes wide, even though his aim is true, hands steady and heart steeled. The second shot splutters in the barrel, doesn’t even make it to the dry air. Owen swears, pops out the clip and reloads the chamber. The Stormtroopers get the rest of the door busted open and take up position on either side of the entrance.

Owen doesn’t bother wondering who chooses to visit him like this. He doesn’t have to. He knows, after all.

Darth Vader’s breath rattles in his throat. Owen aims the barrel of the blaster deadeye on his mask. He doesn’t fire. He’s not sure that he can.

“You going to kill me, Anakin?” he asks. A bead of sweat drips down his back, although he feels very cold. 

“The boy,” Vader says, voice like the desert winter wind. “Where is he.”

Owen’s finger twitches on the trigger. “I’m not giving him to you.”

Vader raises a hand, and the shotblaster wrenches itself out of Owen’s hands. “The boy,” he says, and it would sound commanding if Owen didn’t intimately know this feral desert child that he once called his brother. “You will tell me where he is.”

He closes his eyes. He will, is the thing. Owen doesn’t understand much about Jedi and Sith and all that kark, but he knows they have ways of making a person talk even when they don’t want to. He thinks of Luke, tiny, sweet, smart, beautiful Luke.

Owen knows what he has to do. There’s a boning knife that Beru left on the kitchen table, and even space-grade plastoid has hinges.

Darth Vader is quick. Owen, in his moment of desperation, is quicker.